


all i needed (was a little peace)

by hellstrider



Series: Ice & Iron [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha Tormund, Because u know what i want that, Biker Werewolves, Hurt/Comfort, Jon is a little bit of a brat, M/M, Pack Feels, This is a series, Tormund is Protective, Werewolf Biker AU, Werewolf!Jon Snow, Werewolf!Tormund, Werewolves, and tor is also a stoner, but Tormund loves it, but he's Gentle About It most of the time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 17:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19233763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: "You know I was supposed to kill you," Jon says idly, and he isn't sure why."I'm big, Jon Snow, but I'm not stupid. Get the door."





	all i needed (was a little peace)

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO WELCOME TO THE ICE & IRON SERIES! modern Jonmund, werewolves, bikers, a rogue hunter group called the Night's Watch.... we in for a fun ride my loves xoxo
> 
> title is from orange trees by marina

He wakes up. Against all odds, Jon Snow wakes up, and feels the air flood his lungs.

The smell is the first thing that hits him, a frenzy of _sweat-lemon-flowers-bleach-medicine_ that overwhelms him and makes eyes burn. He lurches but finds his wrists bound and his legs very much the same and panic surges through him until there’s a huge hand cupping his jaw and a stronger scent slams into him, making Jon gasp aloud.

Wood-spice-smoke suffuses him and a familiar, sharp face swims into focus when he forces his aching eyes open. Tormund sweeps a hand over his hair, and something inside of Jon unfurls and an honest-to-God _whine_ pitches out of his throat. He’s frantic, needing more of the scent clinging to the man, and his head pounds as he strains against the bonds.

“Easy, little crow,” the werewolf soothes. “Be gentle.”

“What’s happening,” Jon rasps; his gums ache and his hands _itch_ and he feels as if he’s woken up with the worst hangover he’s ever had and a fever all at once.

“What do you remember?”

The room is empty aside from the pair of them. It’s grey and the lights are kept low but they’re so bright and Jon can barely focus on Tormund’s face, much less try and search his mind for –

Another gasp clunks through his throat.

“ _Alliser_ ,” he mutters, and a splitting pain shoots through his gums.

Anger churns into a maelstrom in his belly and Tormund’s big hand comes back over his chest, right over where the bullet slammed into him. The wolf looks about as shitty as Jon feels, his normally coiffed plume of red hair limp over his brow, the shorn sides a little grown out and dark circles under his tired eyes. All his edges are soft and Jon whines again, somehow sensing the deep distress the alpha is trying to hide.

Tormund huffs and shakes his head.

“Should’ve fucking known you’d be a nosy brat as a wolf,” he says, and Jon’s eyes burn as his suspicion is confirmed. “Aye, Jon Snow. The Watch sent hunters after one of their own. You were hanging by a thread when I found you.”

“ _How_?”

“You called me, sweet thing.”

Tormund’s brow creases and he sweeps a thumb under Jon’s bottom lip. The touch makes the thing in his chest writhe and grow warm; the alpha cups his cheek and Jon shuts his eyes, breathing in as evenly as he can.

_Oh._

He did. With his last bit of strength, he hadn’t called Sansa or Arya or Edd or Sam. It had been the wolf that he couldn’t ever hunt, the wolf he’d ended up dying to protect. Alliser had demanded to know where they were, his _Wildlings._ They would’ve bled Tormund dry, and Jon had told them to go fuck themselves, so they bled him dry instead.

“Never fucking forget the sound of your voice, Jon Snow,” the wolf says then, and Jon looks up through the haze. “Terrified and half dead. It’ll haunt me until I choke on dirt.”

There’s something Tormund isn’t telling him, but Jon is too overwhelmed and tired and every other thing to look into it. He turns his face into his palm and breathes him in, tattooed skin and sun and blood. The alpha – _his alpha, but then, he’s always been your alpha, hasn’t he –_ strokes a thumb across his cheek and wolves touch each other all the time but not like this.

“Wasn’t about to let you get away so easy. Not because of those cunts. Rather you die because of my bite than their bullets.”

It’s terrifying and thrilling, and Jon can feel the change still burrowing into his bones, but he knows he’ll make it. Somehow, against all odds, he’ll make it. His mind goes hazy in an instant and all he knows is the grounding presence beside him and the smell of wood-spice-smoke that envelops him.

He isn’t sure if he sleeps. Things become unreal around Jon, but there’s a constant noise battering against his ears and a thirst at the back of his throat he can’t seem to swallow down. At one point, his muscles start to spasm and Tormund is right there, a phantom in his periphery that soothes him through it. Madness rips through him quickly after and an agonized roaring floods the low-ceilinged room for what feels like hours before he realizes it’s coming from him.

Through it all is the mountain-steady presence of his alpha. It might be hours, it might be days; time loses any sort of significance to Jon until the moment the fever breaks and he wakes in the throes of a cold sweat. Everything is sharper, the fog of the change gone and leaving behind only a clarity he can see will become quickly addicting. Jon turns his head to find Tormund asleep in the chair beside him, tattooed arms folded over his chest.

“Tor,” he tries, and it comes out dusty and reedy, but the alpha’s eyes open nonetheless. They gleam gold for a moment and Jon feels it, feels the flash right down to the core of his belly.

“There you are,” the wolf says, sleep-hoarse but warm. He digs into a pocket of his dark, work-tattered jeans and produces a key for the bindings on Jon’s wrists and ankles.

“Don’t worry. Never used these for anything but the change.” Tormund winks tiredly and Jon huffs. “Come here, sweet thing.”

“I can walk.”

It comes out more than a little petulant, and Tormund, clearly amused, steps back from the cot and gestures grandly for Jon to try. He does, because Tormund is giving him that look he always does when he knows he’s right, and nearly goes crashing to the ground. The alpha barks out a laugh and catches him with ease, which makes Jon’s ears and cheeks burn.

“Stubborn little wolf,” he says fondly, and Jon burns down in his gut, too. Tormund sweeps him up into a bridal hold and Jon suspects he should be grateful he’s not slinging him over a shoulder like he’s done dozens of times before on full moon runs, much to Jon’s chagrin.

The alpha’s admonishment sounds like praise and feels like it, too. Jon can feel him, can feel the presence of him as he touches him down in the thing he thinks might be his soul. It keens and whines and Jon has to clamp his throat shut to stop another pathetic sound from falling from his lips.

Tormund pushes out of the small room and into a corridor that reminds Jon of a storage facility. It smells neutral, entirely flat, and Jon’s nose twitches with it as he strains up in Tormund’s arms to look over his shoulder.

“Where are we?”

“The Northstar.”

“What is this? A dungeon?”

“If you like.”

“Where are we going?”

“ _Christ,”_ Tormund mutters with a huff. “Did you like being bound that much, little crow? Shall I take you back and leave you there?”

Jon’s gut flutters, and he absolutely doesn’t have the energy to examine that any closer at the present moment.

“I’ve just been _shot_.”

“It’s been three days.”

“And _bit.”_

“It’ll happen much more often than you expect now, too.”

Tormund looks down at him as he shoulders through a door that spills out into shockingly fresh air. Jon’s eyes water as a whole myriad of scents hit him, and his gums itch and ache and burn as he whines until it becomes a low, simmering growl. He can _smell_ other wolves, their musky, earthen scents all mingling with the wood-spice-smoke of his alpha, and it makes him want to tumble from Tormund’s hold and _chase._

Fortunately, his alpha is far stronger still, and his arms close tighter around him. “ _Settle_ , Jon Snow. They’re yours now.”

He can’t even string together a coherent thought, much less forge a decent response. Tormund guides his face to the meat of his shoulder and holds him there and Jon breathes deep, curling his hands into fists as the beds of his nails split.

“Knew you’d be a brilliant fucking wolf,” the alpha snorts. “What did I tell you, sweet thing? You’ll never be the same once you’ve run with the wolves. The wild found you and clung as tight as it could.”

“Think that was you,” Jon rasps, tongue hitting fang. They’re slick but more ragged than his own teeth, peeking out just enough from his upper gum that it makes his words clumsy. Tormund laughs, a belly of a thing, and Jon bristles immediately.

Tormund doesn’t take him through the main pub in the middle of the Northstar, a sprawling complex where the wolves run free north of Inverness right at the shore. It was once a brewery, the building at least two hundred years old and made of old cement and red brick. It’s covered in ivy and stands three stories tall in some places, brilliant and old and reeking now of _home._

The Northstar now serves as a sanctuary for wolves, complete with a garage for their huge host of motorcycles and enough dens for all two dozen of them. When Jon met Tormund, he was a newly minted alpha and spent most of his time in the shop, pouring over the bikes and covered in grease. He peers into the garage as they pass it, looping around the back to a set of stairs Jon’s never seen before.

“You know I was supposed to kill you,” Jon says idly, and he isn’t sure why.

“I’m big, Jon Snow, but I’m not stupid. Get the door.”

Tormund shoulders through the door into a narrow corridor and Jon is hit with the full impact of his scent. Panic shoots through him and he cranes his neck, ears straining and senses going haywire as the alpha brings him around the back entrance and into his own _den._

“You’ve seen it before, little crow.”

It’s _different,_ Jon wants to say, because it is now. Jon feels tetchy and restless, like he needs to either curl up or plant himself on the sofa until his own scent will never come out. The apartment is ever in disarray, dusty bookshelves overflowing with complicated bike manuals and the kitchen is littered with empty bottles and ashtrays with half-smoked joints perched on their sides.

A huge bed takes up the wall with the wide windows, stained and too old to see out of. The sitting room area is well-lived in, and smells the most like Tormund, which makes Jon wonder if he spends most of his nights passed out on the ancient, sagging couch.

“I was.” The word doesn’t come.

“Blunt-handed,” Tormund offers. “Fangless. _Squishy.”_

Jon narrows his gaze.

“I’ll ring your head like a bell.”

“And you’ll end up pinned for it if you try.”

“I have _werewolf powers_ now,” Jon drawls, head lolling back against the arm of the couch when Tormund lays him down on it. “I could fight you.”

Those blue eyes flicker over his face and Jon feels a little loopy, like he’s had one too many shots. He never has shots. His body is pleasantly heavy, his senses flush with wood-spice-smoke, and Tormund is right there, his alpha, who smiles and brings sunlight to his chest.

“Wild thing,” he says fondly. “When you’re strong again, you can try and ring my head like a bell. I’ll show you what an alpha can do.”

“I’ll show you what.” Jon flounders and Tormund arches one brow, slow and sharp and it makes his heart stumble. “Never mind. Why am I – did you drug me? Have I been drugged?”

“ _Ahh,_ alpha high.” Tormund grins then, all teeth. “You’re feeling _me_ , sweet thing. It will balance out with time. In the meantime, enjoy _not_ feeling the need to brood like some rich prick studying poetry at uni.”

Jon gawps and Tormund leans over him then, bracing his hands on the sofa. He’s huge and overwhelming and Jon hates him, a little, for enjoying this so much. The wolf cups his chin then, and the excited thrill that goes through Jon is entirely human.

“You’re safe here, you know that, don’t you?”

“I’ve always been safe here,” Jon says, a little disarmed. “I’ve always been safe with you.”

_That’s how they got me. Because I wasn’t with you,_ he thinks wildly, and finds he’s dug his hand into Tormund’s black tank top, keeping him close.

A satisfied, pleased rumble vibrates through the sofa from Tormund’s chest and the wolf leans down, sending Jon’s heart launching into his throat. The alpha rubs his cheek against Jon’s, beard rough-soft against his skin, and the newborn thing inside Jon’s chest _preens._

“You’ll stay here, sweet thing,” the alpha says quietly. “Stay here until you’re whole and hale. Then, you’ll run with me, Jon Snow. You’ll run with me as one of us, and we’ll hunt and chase each other through the wilds where the Crows wouldn’t dare fly.”

This time, he can’t stop the soft keen that comes pouring forth. Tormund answers it with a low, burring growl and Jon feels his eyelids growing heavy, body thick with warmth and impossible comfort. He’s just been shot, hunted by the men he once fought with, but Tormund found him and now – and now, he’ll keep him.

A thick blanket comes over Jon, smelling of wood-spice-smoke and wild, and without pain, he sleeps.

 

**Author's Note:**

> jon: i'll kick your ass  
> tormund: i'll eat your ass  
> jon: you'll do what


End file.
